Alone with you?
by Outakurebecca
Summary: For former pirate Arthur Kirkland, being shipwrecked is nothing new. The most difficult challenge won't be surviving the island, but Francis Bonnefoy. From the prompt "FrUk on a deserted island".


Captain Arthur Kirkland kept a firm hold on his buccaneer hat. The fluffy white plume had already been blown away by the terrible gales that pummeled the ship. He shouted orders to his men, but doubted that they heard anything over the crash of the waves and thunder. His yelling was only a formality, the crew knew very well what to do; they wouldn't still be on board if they didn't. Arthur had methodically ensured that his was the finest pirate crew in that ever did sail.

Yet, his skilled men and all of his seafaring expertise might not be up to the ferocity of this storm. They had already taken on a considerable amount of water, and it was costing the best efforts of the entire crew to merely keep the ship afloat.

Arthur ceased his ordering and jammed his sturdy hat into a space between the wooden spokes of the wheel. It would be safer than anyone on the ship, that was for bloody sure.

He cast off his red captain's coat as well, the insistent rain immediately drenching him to the skin through his white ruffled shirt. The omnipresent water streamed off his spiky blonde hair and into his determined green eyes. The only place the water wasn't getting to were his feet, encased in the best knee-high boots on the market. His sword gleamed in its sheath and the rain, tied securely to his belt.

If he was going down with this ship, he was going to fight to the very last shattered piece of driftwood. Arthur had his pride as a captain to uphold. Keeping a share of the loot that was stashed below deck wouldn't hurt either. He walked without a hint of unbalance despite the sporadic tilts of the deck. He grabbed hold of some loose rigging and got to work with his men to save their precious ship.

A voice, softer than any noise in the dire situation around him, broke through his work-driven mind. Arthur shouldn't have been able to hear it, it wasn't any louder than a civil conversation, though the tone was somehow much more intimate. It sounded again, the two syllables of the captain's name sounding slowly, as if being spoken by a lover.

A fresh wall of seawater leapt over the starboard side to slosh at the feet of the pirates. Many of the thinner men slipped off their feet and slid to one side of the ship or another. Arthur tightened his grip on the ropes he was manipulating, his own frame was light and in danger of being swept away. A second wall of water washed over the side and splashed with great force into his face. It felt colder, oddly enough, than the other bouts the storm was hurling at him, and somehow more... real.

"Arthur," the soothing voice called out again. "Come back to me."

Unsure of what witchcraft was taking place, the captain found himself lying flat on the weather-beaten wood of the deck. Though now the deck felt a lot like sand and his clothes felt a lot less pirate. And was that, on his face... The sun? What was that cosmic twat doing in the midst of a sea storm?

Arthur's lids quivered under the enormous effort of opening his eyes. A strong scent washed over him: a combination of salt, wet dog, and wine. His eyes finally found the strength to open; they gradually focused on the concerned face of Francis Bonnefoy.

The concern that creased his brow disappeared. "Mon cher!" Francis grinned. "How considerate of you to join me."

"Get out of my face, frog," Arthur weakly shoved the Frenchman away. He realized with a turn of his stomach that it had been Francis' breath that had made the air potent with the pleasant wine smell. The wet dog, however, was most likely himself. Arthur half sat up, propped on his exhausted arms. Near one of his elbows was an overturned bucket. It was then that he noticed the splotch of wetness that was dispersed over his head and torso.

"You prick!" he yelled, his voice scratchy. "You threw water on me!"

Francis shrugged. "You were muttering in your sleep, lapin."

"Don't call me that," said Arthur.

"Something about 'manning the deck' and 'taking in the top sail'," Francis continued without pause. "Reliving your pirate days, no?"

It had all been a dream. How embarrassing.

"Just a mo, why are we on a beach?" Arthur took his eyes off the Frenchman to squint at their surrounding. This also neatly avoided the pirate fantasy topic.

Francis winced. "The storm wasn't a dream, mon ami."

"Then we really are ship wrecked," Arthur shook his head, sand and water drops falling from his hair.

"This much is true," Francis confirmed. "But do not despair, mon cher. Something good could come of this yet." He got to his feet and offered a hand to Arthur.

Arthur scoffed, accepting Francis' hand against his better judgement. "What good could possibly come of being shipwrecked?" he asked indignantly.

Giving Arthur's hand a playful tug, Francis pulled the Brit from the sand. Arthur was unable to gain his footing and fell somewhat gracelessly into the Frenchman's arms.

"A little romance, perhaps?" Francis suggested, circling his arms around Arthur's waist to steady him.

Arthur paled at Francis' implication. He shoved against his captor's chest and ended up falling again. He fervently hoped it wouldn't become a habit.


End file.
